


Driving Mr. Kuryakin

by spikesgirl58



Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 12:06:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After nightmares of watching Illya die again and again, Napoleon is at the end of his rope. Thankfully, Illya is there to help</p>
            </blockquote>





	Driving Mr. Kuryakin

It started the same every night. They were laughing and talking the way they always did. Illya was going off on some diatribe about American capitalism and he was giving it right back to him. The car they were in seemed familiar, but he'd been in so many cars, it was hard to tell.

Illya was driving as he usually did; he said he didn't trust Napoleon's reflexes. There was more laughter, then a sudden blare of the horn and the horrible screech of metal on metal.

This was where the dream always differed. One night, Illya was thrown through the windshield, sliced to ribbons. Another time was the front end of the car that crumpled up, crushing Illya between the steering wheel and the seat. This time, Illya was thrown, but his back was broken and his hands were lumps of useless tissue and bone.

Napoleon crawled from the car and to Illya's side. He knew his partner was dying; the blood was gushing from him, brilliant red, -the way blood could only be in a dream. He gathered Illya into his arms and felt the man grow first limp, then cold, never hearing what Illya was trying to say to him, always dying before he could tell Illya he loved him. And somewhere an alarm sounded.

Napoleon bolted upright in bed, jarred from the nightmare by his alarm clock. He didn't know why he bothered these days. It wasn't like he was getting any sleep as it was.

He dry washed his face with a still trembling hand and thought about the dream, just one in a string of nightmares that had been plaguing him as of late. They were so real, he could smell the blood, feel Illya's heart flutter to a stop, taste the horrible mixture of gasoline and asphalt in the air. It was always the same, he'd wake up with tears in his eyes and his heart pounding until it made his chest ache.

He felt awful and looked worse. He'd not had a solid eight hours of sleep in nearly a month. It was starting to take its toll on him. The bags under his eyes were so dark it looked as if he were a raccoon. Even Waverly noticed and made a comment that perhaps less play and more sleep was in order.

He'd tried everything he knew, all the going–to-sleep techniques they had been taught in Survival School; he'd even tried pills. Getting to sleep wasn't his trouble; he was practically asleep on his feet all day now. Not dreaming, that was what the trouble was. He needed to stop dreaming. He'd gotten to the point of setting his alarm clock every couple of hours throughout the night. At least it kept the nightmares from going to as long.

He reached for his communicator and hesitated, just for a moment. At this hour, Illya might be asleep and wouldn't thank him for waking him up. He had to chance it.

"Open Channel F, Kuryakin, please."

It took nearly a minute for Illya to answer and when he did, there was a tightness to his voice that Napoleon didn't often hear.

"Kuryakin." Something was muffled, another voice and Napoleon's stomach flopped. Illya wasn't alone; he was with a woman, but why shouldn't he be? Just because Napoleon's bed was a war zone as of late, his partner wasn't sharing his fate. "Hello? Kuryakin here."

Napoleon cut the channel without saying a word. Everything he'd wanted to say was ash in his mouth anyway.

He tossed his legs over the side of the bed. Glancing at the clock, he was startled to see it was only eleven. It seemed so much later.

A second later his communicator sounded and he considered ignoring it. That didn't work – he was too well trained for that.

"Solo here."

"What's wrong, Napoleon?"

"What makes you think anything is wrong?"

"Someone just called me."

"Not me."

"Napoleon, it **was** you." There was a deep sigh. "What is wrong, Napoleon?"

"Nothing… just… nothing. Solo out."

He barely had a chance to set the instrument down before it started to chirp again. This time he did ignore it. He muffled it with a pillow and slowly made his way to the bathroom. As wonderful as a bath would be, the reality of his falling asleep in the bathtub was far too likely. Instead, he turned on the shower, stripped out of his sweat-damp pajamas and slipped in.

Napoleon leaned his forehead against the shower wall and let the water pound his back. He could fall asleep right here without even trying. Unbidden, his mind went back to the laughing, the split second before the crash. His hand was on the back of the seat, brushing at the blond hair at the nape of Illya's neck. The Russian leaned into the caress and smiled just a split second before the impact ripped him from Napoleon's grasp.

"Illya," he moaned, seeing, feeling, sensing his partner's life being ripped from him… and Napoleon not able to do a thing about it… "Oh, God, Illya…"

"You should be more careful."

It was only Napoleon's reflexes, dulled even as they were with tiredness, that kept him from lashing out at the voice.

"Damn it, Illya, don't sneak up on a man like that. A spider spinning a web makes more noise than you do." Napoleon struggled from the shower and stood there, glaring at his partner, his wonderfully alive and healthy partner.

"Rather I put it to you that a full marching band could come through the living room and you'd not hear it. I called to you from the hallway and the bedroom." Illya glanced down and then hastily looked away, grabbing a towel as he said, "You're dripping on the floor."

Napoleon suddenly realized he wasn't just dripping; he was also sporting an erection. He also realized Illya had quite probably heard his last comment in the shower and his cheeks flushed slightly. Napoleon wrapped the towel around his waist even as Illya was walking from the bathroom. Napoleon was glad; it was claustrophobic with Illya in the same room.

He got himself under control and grabbed his favorite robe from where it hung from the back of the bathroom door. The thing was ratty and far past its prime, but his wife had given it to him. While he'd been able to get rid of everything else from their far-too-short time together, this he couldn't bear to let go of.

Illya was sitting on the edge of the bed, his coat still buttoned, as Napoleon entered, and hastily got to his feet, as if sitting on Napoleon's bed was somehow too intimate an act.

"Better?" Illya was looking everywhere except at Napoleon.

"Yeah." He looked around the room, stifling a yawn. "Why are you here, Illya?"

"You called me. It's my duty as your partner and as your friend to come in such a case."

Napoleon winced internally at Illya's incidental use of that word, but just about anything could be taken out of context at the moment. "I… it's stupid, forget it." He sank to the bed, making sure his robe didn't gape. He very nearly jumped out of his skin when Illya touched his shoulder. "A little tightly strung tonight."

"So I have deduced, but why?" Illya retook his seat on the mattress. "You know that anything you say to me will be held in confidence."

"I know… it's just… stupid."

"Napoleon, you are not sleeping, you are operating under your usual efficiency and if it goes on, Mr. Waverly will be forced to pull you. As the chief enforcement agent, it is your duty to lead by example."

"I know the drill," he snapped and was instantly sorry as Illya withdrew his hand.

"All right." Illya stood again and started to walk to the door.

"Where are you going?"

"You do not wish me here, Napoleon. In light of this, I am leaving to resume my evening's plans."

"Oh… yes, your friend. I heard her."

"My friend is a composer and I was at his studio, helping **him** with a new piece. If you, however, are as fine as you profess, then I will get back to him."

"Illya, wait." Illya paused. "It's just nightmares."

"And the shame in that would be? We all have nightmares from time to time."

"These have been particularly… vivid. Every night, in glorious Technicolor, I watch you die." Napoleon felt the tension in his neck ratchet back a bit. At Illya's silence, he continued. "They start the same – we're going someplace, you're driving and there's this horrible accident. And you die, every night, I do everything I can to stop it and you always die, in my arms, and I can't save you."

"That's what all this nonsense is about? My driving record?" Illya smirked and ran a hand through his hair. "Napoleon, I have been driving for a very long time and I have yet to…"

"Don't say it!" Napoleon ordered sharply. "Don't tempt fate and don't make light of this!"

Illya unbuttoned his coat and took it off, tossing it onto the dresser. "I suspect there is more to it than that."

"No, that's pretty much it." Napoleon bit back a yawn. Even now he wasn't ready. To admit his concern was more born out of love for his partner, as opposed to the physical well being of his partner, was too much too fast. He still didn't quite understand it himself.

"So, now you have told me, you should be able to sleep guilt free. Lie down. I'll help you sleep."

"What? What are you suggesting?" Napoleon's imagination started to swirl with impossible possibilities.

"Just lie down, will you? On your stomach. And take off that silly robe." Illya disappeared into the bathroom and Napoleon found that his mind had turned from happy to more vexing thoughts. He'd not… well, not recently… well, not since Korea, turned to a man for that sort of solace.

He shrugged out of the robe, gathering it at his waist and proceeded to stretch out on his mattress. The sheets were soft and cool against the heat of his skin. It would be so nice to just close his eyes and sleep.

Napoleon felt the edge of the bed dip and knew Illya was with him. The sharp bite of something cold hit Napoleon's lower back. He jumped and attempted to roll, but a large hand pressed downward, pinning him to the bed.

"Just relax, Napoleon, it isn't acid. It's just alcohol." Illya's hand began to move, working the liquid into Napoleon's skin. "You are very tense."

_And you're not making me any more relaxed,_ Napoleon thought as his erection dug into the mattress. A second hand joined the first and it really did feel good. Illya gave good massages and it wasn't as if they hadn't swapped the favor back and forth a dozen times. After a bad mission, there were moments when you only trusted the hands of your partner to touch you.

He didn't mean to drift off, but he did and for a short time all was well. He had some very nice dream entertain him for awhile and then he saw the car, saw the keys in Illya's hand.

"Let me drive," he demanded, but Illya laughed.

"Not likely. These roads are treacherous."

"No, Illya, I have to… I'll… I'll get carsick if I don't."

"Since when?" Illya was already in place, gunning the engine. "Come on slow poke, it's time to motor."

"No." Napoleon just stopped.

"What is wrong with you? You are being ridiculous. Waverly is waiting for us."

"No!" He crossed his arms defiantly .

"Napol –" The explosion knocked Napoleon off his feet and he rolled when he hit the ground, regaining his feet before even realizing what had happened. He looked around, then he groaned. Illya had been in the car. The man was a bloody and smoldering lump on the ground.

Even without getting in the car, he'd been too late – again. He staggered to Illya's side and winced. He knew no matter how light his touch, it would bring pain to the blond.

"Illya, I'm sorry. I tried…"

"S'okay." His voice was so weak.

"You can't die, I love you." Tears started to well up. It was so damn unfair.

"I know… love you too."

The voice was strong and sure and so alive that it shocked Napoleon awake and his eyes opened. Illya was smiling down at him. "Illya?" Napoleon became aware that Illya was very close.

"Is that what all of this is about?" Illya's fingers traced Napoleon's jaw line. "So much concern for something so simple?"

"Not for us…" He blinked his eyes.

"Yes, even for us, Napoleon. Love is as it is. It cannot be tamed, controlled, or predicted." Illya leaned forward and kissed him, so carefully it was as if he was afraid he would break Napoleon into a million pieces. Napoleon wasn't all that sure he wouldn't.

"Am I awake?" he murmured as Illya's lips left his.

"You are." The next kiss was as gentle, the ending of it twice as painful.

"Will you stay?" Napoleon was afraid of the question, but was more afraid of the answer.

"If that's your wish."

"What about your wish?"

The following kiss was far from chaste, it was insistent, demanding that Napoleon either rise to the cause or admit his cowardice. And Napoleon never ever retreated.

He brought a hand up to capture the side of Illya's face and studied his features, the blue eyes dilated to a near back, the nose that flared with each deepening breath and the mouth partially open. It was too much for him to resist and Napoleon pulled Illya's head down even as his own was coming up off the pillow.

Napoleon rolled, taking Illya with him until he partially straddled his partner. Illya gave Napoleon a look that told him this was being done with his permission. Napoleon knew all too well that Illya was more than his equal in wrestling, but this wasn't work, this was pleasure.

He dragged his hand down from Illya's face to his chest to his groin, never pausing until his fingers caught the elastic band of Illya's underwear. He pushed them down, feeling Illya kick free of them. Napoleon then wrapped his fingers around Illya's penis and squeezed gently.

It felt strange to hold a dick other than his own, so familiar and yet not. Illya sighed at the contact and that, in turn, made Napoleon sigh back. There was so much trust, so much calm acceptance that he felt he might still be dreaming.

"We do this and everything changes," he warned softly, even as his hand squeezed the firm flesh again, even as he slid Illya's foreskin down to rub a thumb in the pre-ejaculate gathering at the top.

"We do this together, as it has always been between us; as it should be. We do this as partners." Illya's breath was coming in short spurts and Napoleon positioned himself so that he could trap both their penises in one hand… well, two as it was more than he could manage one-handed. Illya joined in, his pace matching Napoleon's, his stroke firm and concise, as business like as the man the hand was attached to.

It didn't take long, not this first time. Just a few fast strokes and Napoleon found himself suddenly gasping, his head thrown back in the sheer ecstasy of feeling not just his own climax, but Illya's as well.

With that, Napoleon felt his fear drain away with the last bits of his climax, shared with the one person he trusted more than he even trusted himself.

He grabbed his robe and wiped their semen from his hand and then from their dicks. Then he leaned in and kissed Illya.

"Thank you," he murmured, smiling as he rubbed his whiskered cheek against that of his partner.

"Mmm, thank you, but I think in the morning, a bit slower path, if you please." Illya's voice was sleepy and Napoleon yawned in spite of himself. "Sleep well, my love."

_My love._ He liked the sound of that and Napoleon began to grin. It would be a grin that followed him into his sleep and into his dreams. Just before dropping off, he found Illya's hand.

"Illya?"

"Mph?"

"Just let me drive us to work in the morning, okay?" He pulled Illya closer.

"'Kay, whatever it takes to keep you happy."

_And I'll do whatever it takes to keep you alive._


End file.
